your reflection should not be of me
by CayleeElizabeth
Summary: Hank tries to deal with the dreaded possibility of Becca dropping out of school.


_**A/N – Ok, trying my hand at some Californication and Hank Moody and all of his glory and sin and angst. Let me know what you guys think! Laters, T-**_

Your reflection should not be of me.

He awoke with a dull aching _throb_ in his head, his brain pounding against his skull, rebelling against its own state of consciousness. Tentatively opening his eyes he struggled to get his vision to focus on his surroundings. Where was he? _Did it even matter? _ Probably not. Well there's a bed, so he must be in a bedroom of some sort, a really _bright_ bedroom by the way, like the sun is _inside_ the room not millions or billions (or whatever) miles away. Obviously whoever owns this too white, too bright bedroom does not believe in window dressings. He groans, the brightness of the room hurting his dry, blood-shot eyes. _Ok, focus Hank_. So there is a bed, but he is not in it, no one is from what he can see from his angle on the, wait, where is he? Oh, the floor. A cold white floor. Seriously, is he in a fucking psych ward? (He'd question the possibility of Heaven but you know….Ha! Like he'd ever end up _there._) But really, what is with all the _white_?

He lifts his head slightly, inspecting his own state, observing quickly that he's completely naked, and that doesn't surprise him in the least, and Jesus what is that _smell_? He dry heaves at the retched odor before regretfully realizing that the funk is permeating from his own pores and nowhere else. If Charlie were here (wherever _here_ is) he'd probably be commenting on how he's hit rock bottom and isn't that a joke because how many times can Hank Moody hit rock bottom before it becomes redundant and meaningless? And he'll bet you a dollar there will be a very lame attempt at an intervention in the not so distant future. But he'll listen (or at least pretend to) and will go to rehab because it's _Karen_ and _Becca_ asking, pleading, no demanding for him to straighten himself out.

His eyebrows crease, not liking where his inner dialogue is going and God he wishes there was a laugh-track to help lighten the mood. Becca's voice begins echoing loudly, slicing through the dull throb in his brain as the conversation from last night decides to make an appearance. He can't remember it word for word because of you know, the excessive alcohol intake, but he does clearly remember Becca stating oh so nonchalantly that she wants to drop out of school so she can _live_ and _fuck_ and _write_. He's dry heaving again, and it's _not_ because of his own personal stench this time. Since when did she want to be like _him_? Can't she see where a life like his goes? She has so much potential, and she's so much better than what she's setting herself up for. And _fuck_, the road she wants to go down is not paved in yellow bricks, it's littered with hypodermic needles and used condoms and empty liquor bottles and heartache and tears and self-loathing and well you get the point.

He spots his jeans crumpled next to bed and begins a painful slither across the cold tile. Digging through his pockets he pulls out loose change, an un-used condom (_shit_) and finally his cellphone. Instinctively he dials Karen's number, but the trek to his jeans was long and painful and exhausting and while the phone is ringing his eyes droop and his only answer to Karen's tentative _"Hello?"_ is a nasally snore.

"Hank?" she says louder, almost shouting into the receiver.

"Karen?" he asks sleepily, not sure what's real and what's not. He can hear her sigh loudly on the other end. Yes, this is real. He could never dream up the exact_ tone_ of that sigh.

"You called me Hank," she says, her impatience growing. Hank pinches his nose as he tries to remember _why_.

Oh right_._

"Do you know what your daughter told me last night?" he says in a rush of words, panic and anger and fear shaking him to the very core. "Do you know what she told me?" He says again, louder this time, his mind stumbling at a frantic pace.

"What did she tell you Hank?"

"She wants to drop out of school Karen! She wants to have sex with random people and do drugs with even random-_er_ people and she wants to _write_! She wants to write," he finishes in a broken sob, his forehead dropping to the cold tiled floor, his shoulders slumping in defeat. How did this happen? His beautiful, sweet, innocent, _smart_, Becca? God she is smart. Wise beyond her years.

"You need to talk to her," Karen says oh so softly. And he gets it, he does, no really. But he has never really been good at being a _father_. So why _should_ she listen to anything he says?

"She won't listen to me Karen." She's asking too much from him. There is no way in Hell he could even think about setting his daughter straight right now, _especially_ now when his own path has veered sharply to the left.

"You need to _try_ Hank." He pouts, his eyes scrunching shut as the weight of the word '_try_' slams down on him like an anvil in a Looney Tunes cartoon.

"She won't listen to me," he tries again. Sure he probably sounds like a reluctant child, but he never claimed to be grown-up. Karen was always the adult in their relationship. Surely she should know this by now? She huffs into the receiver and Hank holds his breath.

"Fine, _we'll_ talk to Becca." Hank feels his heart stop for a millisecond when Karen states that they'll handle this situation together, like a couple, like husband and wife, mother and father. He always was a sucker for the "we" stuff. He lets out a puff of air.

"Really?" he asks hopefully, fearing that he may have heard her wrong. "I mean, you just tell me when and where and I'll be there with bells on." His words come out in a rush and there is no hiding the eagerness in his tone and he just knows Karen is rolling her eyes at his apparent enthusiasm.

"Where are you Hank?" He looks around, and suddenly spots a pretty redhead in a grey pencil skirt and black lacy bra entering the stark whiteness of the bedroom. His eyebrow creases as he struggles to remember her face, her hips, her pussy, anything, but is coming up blank.

"Excuse me?" He says clearing his throat causing the perky redhead to stop mid-step while she fumbled with her earrings. "Where am I?" She rolls her eyes and kicks his shirt in his general direction.

"Santa Monica, and I'm late for work, and you need to go." Santa Monica? Well that's not so bad, he's ended up in far worse places after many a bender.

"Santa Monica," he repeats matter-of-factly into the phone.

"Jesus Hank! When are you going to get your shit together? I'm going to call Becca and have her meet us for coffee in an hour. Is that enough time for you to get cleaned up and back to L.A.?"

"Of course, I'll just need to find some bells."


End file.
